


Bedroom Hymns

by cloudings



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Will Graham, Fake Kidnapping, Hannibal Likes It When Will Says Please, Light Bondage, M/M, On the Run, Partying, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Top Hannibal Lecter, cannibal jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:00:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudings/pseuds/cloudings
Summary: Will attends a party that he probably shouldn’t in a half-hearted attempt to say goodbye to his friends for the last time before he and Hannibal escape for good.Hannibal, as always, is right. Will hates it there.Parties aren’t really his scene.This, though; this sanctuary that Hannibal found them is perfect.And the bedroom. Well. The bedroom is certainly his scene.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 26
Kudos: 211





	Bedroom Hymns

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !

Parties are not gatherings that Will often puts himself in the path of going to. There’s a distinct disgust that he feels about the sweat building up on each set of skin that brushes by him, or the stench of alcohol-ridden breath that reminds him of a swaying antelope in the vastness of a busy, busy savannah. And now there’s the reverse image of horns in his head again that makes him want to laugh for hours. He would, lest he look like a madman. 

Alana has run to fetch him a drink. There’s a look that she sends across the room that doesn’t necessitate a guessing game. She comes back with him at the very same time, crowding Will almost against the wall, worried faces plastered with encouraging smiles, telling him _talk to us._ But he does not. He cannot. Does not want to in the first place, very frankly. 

When he takes the drink that she extends out towards him, he’s nostalgic enough about his past with her and with Jack that he actually takes a sip, against his better judgement. He doesn’t think that they want to hurt him. He knows that they want his information. Addresses and recounts and names. Like fuck. He holds the cup steady enough in his hand afterwards that the liquid does not do so much as ripple. He stares down the faces across from him, as if daring them to tell him to drink more. He does not know what is in this. He doesn’t intend to find out unless when he ventures home, Hannibal intends to do a toxin screen on him. He wouldn’t say no. Like fuck, he’d say no.

“And to what do I owe the pleasure, Jack?” he asks with a smile that makes the man almost flinch. Will sees the sorrow in his face. A little hope lost. His frown drinks in another gulp of his whisky. Good. They won’t be able to drive after him. 

“We haven’t seen you around much, lately,” Jack says. “Since the accident.”

Will spares a small laugh. Alana looks as though she’s studying him and mourning him at the same time. He says, with a roll of his eyes and a smirk, “Well, it was slightly traumatic.”

“You aren’t showing signs of trauma,” Alana says, bold, her grip on her glass tight and her eyes hard as rocks. 

“That’s why I took the time off, Alana,” he tells her simply. “To cope.”

He sees her tongue press through her cheek. She’s refraining from screaming. He thinks that she’s actually doing a rather good job. She hums, “Which psychiatrist instructed you on that?” 

And he still can’t help his smile when he answers, “A private one.”

Jack takes a step forward, expression rough. He slams his glass down onto the table next to them and Will is mildly impressed that it doesn’t break. “Enough, Will,” he growls, like he wants to shout at the top of his lungs but doesn’t want to gather the attention of their company. “He is _poison._ ”

“I don’t know who you mean.”

“Will,” Alana presses. “He has done something to you. Drugged you. Brain—”

“Brainwashed me, Alana? Really?” He shakes his head. “Hannibal Lecter is dead. I saw to that personally.”

“Then where is his body?” she demands. 

And it takes every ounce of Will’s self-control to not respond with _I ate it_ because he knows that they will not consider it the light-hearted humour that he and Hannibal do. 

“Twenty-thousand feet underwater. Getting feasted upon by plankton and crabs. The very underwhelming burial that he so feared. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Alana, Jack. You might re-awaken my trauma.”

He brings the drink with him as he walks away from them both, into a small room occupied by not so much as a roach. There’s a lock on the inside and so he turns it, and presses his face into his hands with a deep groan that’s sure to be heard outside. He doesn’t want to be here. This is not his scene.

His scene is home. In the garden, with the dogs. Watching closely in the kitchen; art being performed. Reading neighbouring books side by side and switching as soon as they shut. Introducing the shitty world of baking and quiz shows and god-awful sitcoms with laugh tracks that always make the both of them shiver. And laugh at each other.

His scene is out. In the woods. On the road. Only the dead moonlight to accompany them. Assist them. The rumble of an engine cutting out and the sensation of a mouth ready to scream against his palm. The feeling of a flailing body falling limp in his arms. Blood splattering onto open lips and a grin stretching across them. Kissing the blood away. Tasting it. Tasting him. 

His scene is in bed. Getting carried there by strong arms. The luxury sheets massaging his back and his shoulders as he writhes. Pushing him down, too. Knees sinking into the mattress. Hair tousled. Both of them. Breath so hot that it’s fiery and saliva doused with aphrodisiac. Arms stretched around each other and legs bent every which way. Fingers. Everywhere. Pressing, pressing, until they’re in his mouth, and his tongue is circling them, teasing. Until they’re further. Almost gagging, but not. Too much experience, now. Trained. Fingers stretching beyond the curve of his ass and dipping slick inside. Head thrown backwards. _More, more._

This is not his scene.

He digs into his pocket and retrieves his phone. The sixth one this fortnight. Just to be safe. Hannibal is on his twentieth, this fortnight. To be smart. He sends one single text.

_Pick me up._

It is read almost at once. He can see it, Hannibal raising an eyebrow in amusement and basking in his being right. Again. He’d told Will that he wouldn’t enjoy going. 

H: _I told you that you would not enjoy._

H: _Also, say please._

_It was smart to give one last appearance before we go._

_Please_.

A thrill rushes through him. He should leave now. Wait outside. He’ll come into the house, if not, and there are at least five FBI agents crawling around. The risk is sometimes fun. This is too much. Will is not prepared to make a risk _this big._ Not when they’re so close to actually getting the fuck out of this place. 

So he makes his way out of the room, his fortress, and avoids the glare of his former boss. Jack is putting his hand on the backs of people to get them out of the way. He’s clearing a path right to him. Will speeds up, clearing a path for himself. The door calls for him.

He can already taste the smugness that’ll be placed on Hannibal’s mouth. The warmth that’ll spread from his hand on his thigh when he escapes from the brittling cold into the car. Their car. The classical music that’ll be playing at a volume so appropriate for the time of day and the public around them. He wants to kiss him already. Feel Hannibal’s fingers around his neck. In his hair. All over him. _Yes, please_. 

The doorway is blocked when he gets there. He eyes her where she stands and briefly internally debates how much attention it would draw if he flung her across the room. But she’s one of the few people that he and Hannibal still have spared respect for. He doesn’t want to kill her. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks calmly, arms folded neatly across her chest. 

“Margot,” he greets with a curt nod of his head, a tight smile. “I was stepping out for some fresh air.”

She scoffs at him outwardly. “With a side of flesh?”

“I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about. If you’ll excuse me.” He nods his head to the side, indicating her to move. 

“Why should I?” she asks him, tone deep with intent. “Will he come in if you don’t meet him outside?”

_Yes,_ Will wants to tell her. _So, move. It’ll be carnage if you don’t._

“Are you asking me if Hannibal Lecter is coming to pick me up in his meat-mobile?”

“Is he?”

“Would I be stupid enough to bring him to your house?” he says coolly. “You and your wife would end him in a second.”

She nods with him, stare harsh on his face. “You worry about him.”

“I can’t. He’s dead. Now, Margot, I’m going to bid you goodbye,” he tells her. “One last time.”

Margot’s eyes flutter shut for a moment and she seems to want to go on, argue further. Get any information out of him that she can. But she seems to know that it’s a lost cause. She steps to the side, regret in her eyes, and she says, “Goodbye, Will.”

It’s final for them both. Will has an obscure sense that he should hug her, perhaps. But it’s not suitable. Not at all. So he steps forward and opens the door with one final courtesy nod towards her. When he closes it behind him, he can barely hear it click shut. His mind is racing one hundred miles an hour. 

The night air blows goosebumps onto his skin and disturbs the neatness of his hair. It’s a good thing that Hannibal happens to like him whilst he’s dishevelled, he thinks. He likes it when it looks like he’s been wrecked, good and proper. He pulls off his glasses now, no reason to keep them on any longer, the lonely front yard necessitating nothing hiding his true gaze, his true intentions. He needn’t fool anyone, anymore. Not that he was trying especially hard to do so. He knows that he didn’t kid Margot for one minute, not to even mention Jack and Alana. A small part of him wonders whether or not he was terrible at convincing them on purpose. Like he’s teasing them. Jack could have people follow him, track him down if he really wished. He’s never restrained from going beyond the law, himself.

There’s a rumble. Will stares to the road and allows himself a small grin of anticipation. When he begins the walk forwards, he can see it becoming ever more real: the escape. And then his partner opens the door of the driver side of the car and Will wants to scream at him to get back in before somebody looks out of a window; perhaps the troublesome trio already are. Security cameras will no doubt be catching them. _Oh, well,_ he thinks.

“I hope I did not keep you waiting in the cold,” Hannibal says to himself. Will was correct. There’s that goddamn smugness splashed across his lips. 

“You didn’t,” Will tells him. “The temperature out here is miles above the reception that I received inside.”

“Would I be considered self-centred if I guessed that this was because of me?”

Will laughs, jogging the last couple of steps before he comes close their bodies separated by the car door alone. “You’d be right. Jack thinks you are poison.”

“Then I believe it may already be in your system.” Hannibal’s eyes devour him. They linger on his askew hair, and then drop to his lips before he licks his own. “Are you ready, Will?”

“You don’t have to.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I do.”

Will sighs, lifts a hand to shield his lips from view of the security cameras, and he says, “Just make it look convincing.”

The last thing that he sees is a sharp smile on his lover’s face, and then darkness.

*

In the car, his head hurts from the punch and his legs hurt from the way that they’re bent, cramped between his stomach and the trunk door. His breathing is uneven and his wrists are going to ache like Hell when he gets out of here. They’re tied behind his back, so he can’t take the blindfold off of his eyes yet. He doesn’t exactly mind. He likes the sensation. And he likes the aches. 

He can hear the classical music that he’d been yearning for over the beat of his heart. _Night On Bare Mountain._ His mouth twitches upward behind the gag that’s been placed there. He closes his eyes. Bumps along with it. 

Not long now.

*

“Hello.” 

Will inclines his head toward the voice. There’s some sunlight peeking in through the blindfold and it’s not so stuffy anymore. He can breathe again. 

A hand is placed on his face, stroking the fabric across it, and another on his left leg. The other assists in stretching his legs outwards, and Will groans at the _pop_ that his bones make. He hears a chuckle. Then he’s standing up on shaking feet, pulling on the fabric keeping his hands tied together. 

“Well,” his lover says. “I thought the plan was to make it look believable for the police. But then you had to go and look pretty, in this get-up. I might not actually want to let you free.”

But his fingers dig beneath the fabric around his eyes, and Will winces once at the sudden light before settling his gaze softly on Hannibal. He says with his eyes, _just try it._

He sighs, says, “A man may dream,” and pulls the fabric from his mouth, too. “You’re charming when you’re not… so to say… sassing me.”

“You’re charmed by me, regardless,” Will says. “Do you want to untie me, now?”

“Not necessarily,” he says, stepping forwards. Will takes a moment to look around, now. The sun is tinted by the light-green of the leaves overhead, shadowing them, and they stand on a ground of bark and mud. Birds of various species chirp and sing in the long branches. There’s no way of knowing what state they're in. Whether they’re still even in the great United States at all. How long had they been in that car? 

“I see,” Will hums, eyes scanning over Hannibal’s face. “Well, it might be important to note that I’m not exactly a fan of exhibitionism.”

Hannibal nods. Tilts his head. Steps closer. Tells him, “Nothing that can’t be changed.” He places his hands on Will’s hips, then turns him around. “But it can be put off, for now.”

Will takes it in slowly. A gorgeous cottage. Not unlike the one once owned by Garrett Jacob Hobbs. It is adorned with tulips. Pretty in pink against the greenery growing up the white walls. It’s beautiful. Will licks his lips at the sight. It’s so domestic. 

“Do you like it?” is whispered in his ear. Will’s chin rests on his shoulder. “It’s ours. All ours.”

“I love it,” Will tells him honestly. “Where are we?”

“Do you need to know?”

Will uses one of the hands behind his back, grabs onto Hannibal’s belt. Pulls him close. “Hannibal.”

He feels him smile against his neck. “Newfoundland and Labrador.”

So, he’d been relatively right. Not in the U.S of A anymore. The area smells new. It smells fresh.

“How long were we in the car?”

“Longer than your limbs would thank me for.”

Will scoffs a laugh. “So you couldn’t have let me out sooner?”

Hannibal slides a hand down his front. “But now, you are so reliant.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Your legs are so weak.”

“Do you plan to carry me over the threshold?”

Hannibal considers this for a moment. Then he leans down, tucks his arm underneath the crook of Will’s knees, and picks him up. Bridal style. 

“Oh, Christ,” Will groans. His arms fucking _kill._ They’re still bent behind his back, weird angles galore, and he’s wondering when the Hell he’s going to get out of these. 

“This is traditionally done after marriage ceremonies, no?” Hannibal asks.

“Yes.”

“Then God is watching. Let us see whether or not he approves of what I have planned.”

Hannibal closes the trunk and it barely gives off a noise. No birds startle high in their homes. He doesn’t even lock the car. Will wonders, briefly, just how isolated they really are. Are they the definition of off the grid? Will hopes so. He hopes, as Hannibal carries him through the front gate and along the path, that they remain here undisturbed forever. He hopes, as they pass through the front door (also unlocked), that they die here. However death may come.

Will has barely any time at all to gather a sense of what the inside looks like. He’s carried through a room that he can only see the ceiling of and then they’re heading down a corridor flooded with light from numerous windows. There’s art on the walls already, like this place was made for pretentious dickheads like Hannibal. And then there’s a bed, and Will is placed on it, hands still secure behind his back. The bed is softer than any he’s felt before, big enough to fit five grown men if somebody so wished (and Will is new enough to the whole homosexual scene that he’s pretty sure that’s not gonna happen any time soon, arrest warrants notwithstanding). The walls here are a light brown with the wooden panels, dark blue curtains draped over the large windows overlooking the forest on one side and a batch of water on the other. Will resist the urge to grin. He found a perfect home for them both. 

“So,” Will says, gaze crawling up Hannibal’s body like a lion. “What exactly have you got planned?”

Hannibal’s hands are on him faster than lightning. There’s fingers around his neck, pressing down, pushing him back against the white sheets. Will bites a lip in anticipation as the other man finds his position, knees either side of Will’s torso, staring down at him as if he were a painting himself. Perhaps the two of them would recreate _Les Demoiselles d'Avignon_ one day. In bed or with bodies. Both. Maybe.

Will rolls his hips upwards because he knows that it’ll get Hannibal going and he’s as right as he is aroused. He looks at Hannibal’s neck and wants to bite it, looks at his mouth and wants to kiss it, looks at his shirt and wants to rip it. Open. Off. He would, if he could. Trust Hannibal Lecter to be an expert at bondage knots. 

Hannibal seems to have a similar thought pattern. His fingers are trailing down Will’s neck, feeling over his Adam’s apple and digging his nails into the skin over his jugular. He slides it further, beneath the white dinner shirt that’s been creased to death from the long ride. Will rolls his head to the side as Hannibal strokes his opposite collarbone, finger dipping into the crevice there, and then he pushes further, testing the stretch of the shirt as he caresses his shoulder. 

“You’ll tear my best shirt,” Will says.

“I should have kept you gagged,” Hannibal says back. 

Will laughs at that, continues to watch closely as the fabric pulls taut, the button straining in its assigned hole. Desperate. Going to pop. Will thinks that if it were anybody but Hannibal doing this, it might fly off into his eye. 

It pops, alright. Hannibal catches it with his other hand. He throws the button out of the window that Will hadn’t previously realised was open. A fresh chill runs up his body and he can feel his nipples grow hard, can sense the reaction it pulls from Hannibal, too. Freshly uncovered, he eyes Will’s chest like a meal (an unfortunate choice of words) and lowers his head to trail his tongue over the nipple that’s bare to the world. The other is still covered, but deter Hannibal, that does not. His fingers are on it, twisting and pinching, drawing out groans and whines like Will is a virgin to this sort of activity. His back arches into the sensation and he throws his head backwards in a fleet of ecstasy. 

The other buttons come off like clockwork. Hannibal rips open the shirt in one swift movement, eliciting hungry eyes and a tongue that doesn’t miss one inch of the freshly exposed skin. Will preens for all of it. The damn near worship that Hannibal presents him with is something that Will will never quite get used to. He adores it. He returns it.

If Will had use of his hands, he’d have them buried in his partner’s hair, urging him, encouraging him, showing his appreciation. Or, perhaps, he’d have his trousers off already. Both of them. Perhaps their positions would be switched right now. Will would touch the man as a fanatic would Jesus Christ, only given the chance.

Hannibal tongues his navel as if there’s something buried there to uncover. He kisses down the trailing dust of hair until he gets to more of his clothes, of which Hannibal currently seems to have some sort of vendetta against. He does not waste a moment of time, unbuttoning and unzipping the trousers and unsheathing what lay beneath. He can feel rushes of air upon his crotch and his legs, and when Hannibal stops to admire some more, Will kicks them off from around his ankles, onto the floor.

“Your anatomy is impeccable, Will,” Hannibal praises, and oh, right, Will isn’t wearing any underwear. Not that it would last for long if he was. 

“I’ll give you an A for effort in dirty talk,” Will replies, deflecting his solo nudity. One thing is for certain: if his hands weren’t tied, he would not be the only one stark naked. Hannibal still had on his fucking jacket. 

“You would not forgive me for being too crude,” he says. “I am stating only what I find to be true. Your body is exemplary, to me.”

Will can feel his body blushing, despite himself. Despite how many times Hannibal has seen him like this. He says, “I wish I could only see you to return the compliment.”

There’s a pull on the corner of Hannibal’s lips again. “Does memory not serve satisfactory?”

“Not near enough.”

“But not entirely too far. You can wait.”

Curse Hannibal. Will throws his head back. Hannibal grabs his cock. 

Will convulses like a madman, heart in his throat, moan spilled from his lips. He hates himself for such a reaction. It’s what Hannibal wants. They’re still playing a game, here. Will bites down on his bottom lip and hopes that he bleeds with it. That always throws Hannibal off. Makes him a little dizzy. 

Hannibal’s hand moves in intricate patterns. He manages to jerk Will to absolute hardness and is not shy about the rest of him. His other hand strays from circling his nipples to cupping his balls, always keeping busy, and fingers that play with the tip of his dick do so with intent. Will absolutely refuses to make another noise before Hannibal is inside of him. 

He knows that Hannibal can smell the blood on his lip before Will can even taste it. His head snaps up. Gaze, dark. It’s so undeniably attractive. It really shouldn’t be. Will smirks down at him, licking it away from his mouth. _Got you._

Hannibal stares him down with that look in his eye, and squeezes his dick just slightly too tight. Will has to grind his teeth together to keep from making another noise, and it’s hard, but he does it. Only a shaky breath escapes from his nose and he doesn’t count that as a loss. Hannibal bares his teeth ever so slightly. It’s not exactly a smile. He can’t tell exactly what it is. 

“You, Will,” he says. “You are special.”

“I figured I must be to some extent,” he replies. “Or else you’d have killed me the same fortnight that I met you.”

“I will never kill you now, Will,” Hannibal tells him. “I want you to know that.”

“You didn’t kill me even after you’d been in prison for three years. I trust you. I might be a fool, but I trust you.”

“You’re anything but a fool, Will.”

Hannibal leans down, presses three kisses up the side of Will’s dick and then envelopes the head in his mouth, moving downwards bit by bit, his hand stroking where is mouth is yet to cover. A part of Will gets anxious every time Hannibal does this. Something about a joke to do with cannibals and blowjobs. He’s forgotten it for now. Now, Hannibal’s eyelids are fluttering shut instead of his gaze remaining on him the entire time, as they so often tend to do so. It puts Will at ease. He lets his head fall back as the warmth takes over his dick, easing down further and further until he can feel Hannibal’s nose at the base of his dick, amongst all groomed pubic hair. He wonders, briefly, whether there’s anything that this son of a bitch _isn’t_ good at. Murder? Check. Cooking? Check. Deepthroating? Fucking check.

Will pulls against his restraints and kicks out when it doesn’t work. He wraps his legs around Hannibal’s back, toes curling inward, rolling his head from side to side, rubbing his face against the sheets, getting his sweat-slick hair out of his face. The warm suction around his dick sends bouts of pleasure zinging up his spine, electricity flowing through even to the very tips of his fingers. His body is fluctuating between hot and cold from the sun-lit arousal and the breezy open window. 

Everything happening to his body in this moment feels like a juxtaposition to the way it felt whilst stuck up in the cramped space in the trunk of the car. The way his legs coil and uncoil, head thrown back instead of arched forward. He can breathe now — but it’s in short, strong bursts. Panting. Levelling his breathing is a damn sight harder when there are lips sucking down your dick. 

“Hannibal,” Will whimpers, digging his heels into his back. “God, your fucking mouth.”

Hannibal slips up from the bottom of his dick, tongue sliding to the top at the same time as his lips. He swots a light tap onto the side of his thigh to show his disdain at Will’s language, but his eyebrows show his amusement. There’s an airness of freedom that lingers betwixt them, a newfound passion between them that’s not been explored yet, not since they’ve found their liberation, their bowers. 

“Hannibal,” he groans again, frustration seeping through his tone as he feels his tongue circle the head of his cock, teasing him. It’s on purpose. Of course it is. “For Christ sake, will you please, please, just find wherever the fucking _lube_ is?”

The way that Hannibal lifts his mouth is somehow as elegant as the rest of him. He says, “You’re better than that kind of language.”

“Am I?” Will asks, a lazy smile decorating his face. 

Hannibal huffs out a laugh. “I would like to think so,” he says, pushing himself up with arms that Will has all the time in the world to admire. He reluctantly frees himself from the cage of Will’s thighs. Slides a palm down his skin. 

“God, you think you’re so —” But Will doesn’t finish his sentence, doesn’t know how to finish it, if he’s completely honest. He doesn’t have to, though. Hannibal leans over him, presses a soft yet deep kiss to his lips. As if it would matter to Will that his lips had just been somewhere disagreeable. He kisses him back as hopelessly and audaciously as he can. Their lips meld together like hot glass, like pottery. Will probably smells like sweat and musty car rides. Hannibal smells impeccable. Will’s palate is still rusty, but he’s getting there. He smells like the pine from outside and of an aftershave that’s probably far too expensive.

He doesn’t know where the fuck the lube ends up coming from. Hannibal might’ve had it in his back pocket, for all he was concerned. There’s the coolness of the gel slipping down the crevice of his ass, preparing him for the slip of his fingers. They aren’t quite inside him yet, only pressing against the outside, applying tidbits of pressure against the opening there. They’ve done this often by now. Will doesn’t at all mind this advance to their relationship. 

Insert one. It’s always almost clinical. It’s impossible for Will to forget that the man is (was, legally) a doctor. Some part of it is kind of hot, though. The professionalism. Stoicism in such a steaming situation. He loves it. 

Insert two. Now both his index and middle fingers are inside of him, curling ever so slightly in the way that he knows Will likes. 

Three. Inserted. God, it’s overkill at this point, isn’t it? Will’s more than ready to take him now, fingers forgotten, and Hannibal _knows_ that they both like it when it burns just a little. This is a tenuous foreplay. There’s transience in the moment that his trumped fingertips brush the bundle of nerves buried deep inside of him and Will fantasises impulsively of the way that those fingers present themselves when they’re handling knives, pressing against flesh, dripping with blood. Too much of it is appealing. The steady throb in his erection grows into an ache, and he wants to get out there again, desperate for it. Their next meal. Their next kill. It looms over the two of them.

It’s on his breath again as he murmurs, “ _Hannibal_ ,” into the hot air between them. They’re kissing and even when their lips are apart it’s as if they’re kissing still, caught in an endless grasp of mingled lips and tongues. If Will had access to his hands, they’d be sliding through the thickness of Hannibal’s hair, and pulling on his arm, a wordless request. But he has no access to his arms, still bound. Words are all he has. 

“Yes?” 

“Will you stop fucking teasing me?” he asks, harsh just because he can be. He’ll switch to sweet when he’s got a dick in his ass, thank you very much. Until then, he doesn’t owe a soul a thing. 

Hannibal, being the smug asshole he is, simply smirks. “My apologies, Will. I don’t seem to know what you are referring to.”

“Just,” he says. “Fuck me.”

The fingers inside of him curl once again. Will squeezes his eyes shut, lurches his face toward his partner’s on impulse to kiss him again. It’s almost pleading. Hannibal doesn’t say no, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Fuck me,” he says again. “ _Hannibal_.”

The fingers screw with him again. Will could scream about the state of unfairness that he’s perpetually living in right now. 

He pulls back, then bites down hard on the other man’s bottom lip. There’s a dark flash to be seen in Hannibal’s eyes as he processes the pain, and then the taste, and before he can do a thing in return, Will lurches to kiss him once again. He licks the blood away from his mouth, swallows excessively. 

“I said,” he tells him, voice hard but low, quiet, so much so that if a bird were to perch on the sill of the open window, even he should be ignorant. “Fuck me.”

Hannibal withdraws his fingers. As he should. 

Will gives him a little smile, eyes full of content smugness. He might be digging his fingernails into Hannibal’s shoulders now, if he could, might be dragging harsh red lines into his skin, maybe even breaking it. Hannibal complains about it when he does it, but Will knows he secretly enjoys it. Catches him admiring the lines in the mirror more often than not. Will feels like he’s been robbed of it this time. 

The feeling of Hannibal’s fingers pressing into the skin on his hips, some wet, some not, is refreshing, and Will has but a moment of realisation before he gathers that Hannibal is flipping him over. Will’s neck aches as it turns so quickly, and he releases a groan of discontent that goes unanswered, unacknowledged. His wet, sensitive nipples send shockwaves down to his toes as he feels them brush and press against the cold, fresh sheets, a shallow reflection of Hannibal’s tongue. He struggles to keep his head up, chin planting a dent in the duvet, deep breaths escaping his lips as he waits for his ecstasy. This position seldom fails to make him feel like a whore worthy of what he’s going to get. Ass up. Head down. Like bad porn. 

Hannibal eats the sight of him up (like he always does) (no pun intended). His gaze burns marks in the skin on Will’s back and ass as if he could actually feel it, and he wouldn’t be surprised if they were indeed that in tune with one another by now. He feels Hannibal’s palms slide from his hips to his ass, groping, feelings what’s his, just because he can, just because he admires Will that much and isn’t afraid to show it. Will has craved this. He always will. One hand is lifted. 

_Smack._

Will doesn’t hold back on his gasp and doesn’t think he could have if he’d even tried. He turns his head so that his right cheek is resting on the bed, hair splayed out around him. Like this, he can see at least a part of Hannibal’s figure behind him, looming, looking like some sort of God. But let’s not feed his ego anymore than he needs, Will thinks. 

_Smack._

God, Will loves this. He shouldn’t. He knows that he shouldn’t. He’s never had this sort of fetish before, never asked a partner to do it to him, or for him to do it to them. He’s never even watched porn of it. He doesn’t quite understand why it gets him going as much as it should. But he supposes that it makes a kind of wicked sense; he fell in love with Hannibal Lecter, so at least a part of him must be masochistic. 

_Smack._

He can feel Hannibal’s dick rubbing against him, bare, teasing, pushing and pulling in between the two of his glutes and making Will think with each thrust _now he’ll go in, now he’ll go in, maybe now he’ll —_ but he doesn’t, he keeps Will wanting, keeps him aching, empty. And again —

_Smack._

That’ll leave a mark. A bruise, at worst, at best, if he’s lucky. He murmurs Hannibal’s name over and over like it’s a prayer. And then the hand takes a turn, doesn’t lift away from the skin like it was previously doing. The hand remains for the sting and his thumb dips inside his asshole again, as if a test to see if he’s actually ready. _Yes,_ he wants to scream. _Yes. Yes. Yes. For fuck sake._

There’s a familiar _click_ that has Will biting his lip in anticipation but he tries not to let it show so evidently on his face (which is probably redundant — Hannibal reads him easier than poetry). His exhale of excitement as he feels and leans into the trickle of cold gel that falls in between his cheeks, and he can feel where it parts for the penis in its way. He’s getting everything lubed up in one fell swoop, Will thinks. Smart. Two birds with one stone. It helps. Will wants this _yesterday._ Will wants this at the party. Will wants this in the trunk. 

“God.” _God_ , if someone could see them now. “Yes. Fuck, come on.” If Alana could see them now. Will would rub it in her face. He couldn’t help it. _Bet this isn’t how you thought the love triangle would end,_ he would say to her, and then let Hannibal sheath him whilst staring at her disappointment. “Hannibal, come on, you have to — you have to, really —” If _Jack_ could see them now. He wouldn’t be able to hold back his laughter. Poor Uncle Jack. Hannibal would probably pay thousands in order to make him see this, let alone by any coincidence. Jack might even cry. _Let him see my descent,_ Will thinks, _it was his doing._

“Hannibal —”

Hannibal slips inside of him. Finally. Will’s moans are made of euphoric hymns that echo around their ( _their!)_ bedroom and bounce off of the walls. The birds in the trees levelled with the open window are startled and Will is more than happy for them to fly away if they wish, because he sometimes thinks that a love as powerful as theirs is startling, as well. 

The stretch is still there, but not so much as usual, so the sting isn’t as prominent. There’s a replacement in the mark on his right cheek. The sensation of Hannibal sinking inside of him is just as wonderful as it was the very first time, and Will suspects that it’s always going to be as such. Is it even possible to picture a way in which this won’t feel good? Can feeling full ever be taken in a negative manner? 

Hannibal’s genuine smile is a rare but beautiful sight. Will counts his luck every time he is allowed even a glimpse of it, so now he curses himself for allowing Hannibal to flip him over. He could still turn if he wanted to, for a better view, but for now he is comfortable and there is a perfect cock dug right inside of him and he’s going to have to settle for his peripheral to sate him. He can _feel_ his smile though, through the rays of his cheeks and when Hannibal leans down to press litters of kisses over his back, over his wrists and the fabric that ties them behind him, over his palms and his fingers. He feels blessed with every time he feels the brush of his lips over his flesh. Like he’s glad to be alive each time. He knows what this mouth has done in the past and what it’s been used for. It could rip him apart at any given time. But he uses it for love. 

“How do you say _fuck, yes_ in Lithuanian?” Will asks in choked tones as he feels Hannibal’s hip bones finally press against his behind. He’s fully inside him now, as it should be, as it always should be. Will could live like this. Maybe now, he can.

“Keep your curse words out of my language,” Hannibal says in a low, amused growl. With one deep hum, he withdraws his hips before snapping forward once again, and Will can tell that he relishes in the way that he brings another gasp out of him. One hand slips to hold the fabric around his wrists and the other to the bundle of Will’s hair. The pull on it makes him whine. 

Hannibal settles into a delicious rhythm with each thrust of his hips, one which Will can’t resist but push back into. Hannibal’s lean over him makes him feel flushed and warm, more so than he already was, somehow. The sounds that the both of them make are obscene — Hannibal’s grunts and Will’s moans mixed with the crude slap of skin on sweaty skin bring a soundtrack more salacious than a porno. 

There’s all kinds of fluid everywhere. His dick is rubbing against the bed, rocking forward with each thrust, precum lathering the sheets beneath him. He’s pretty sure that he’s got drool all around his mouth from keeping it open like he’s waiting to catch flies. In theory, it should be drier than the Sahara, but for some reason – whatever reason – he’s salivating more now than he has been in what seems like his entire life. There’s lube dripping down between his thighs and he’s glad for it, because they’d tried it once dry and Will had ached for days afterwards. There’s mingled blood still smudged on his lips from their kiss. It’s fucking gorgeous. 

Will can feel his legs beginning to shake. He’ll collapse any minute, he’s sure of it, a loss of strength that he’s not sure how he’s going to feel about. His body is pretty much only being held up by his knees and his head and he’s definitely going to have a stiff neck tomorrow, but that’s going to be a problem for then, not now. A problem for _now_ is how scared he is that he’s going to cum far sooner than he originally planned. He knows that Hannibal would never have such a problem — the bastard’s willpower is far too strong. Will’s been trying to train himself up. It’s not been working too well. 

“Yes,” Will groans, tugging on the restraints yet again because he feels like he has to do _something._ Anything to distract himself from the only sensations of the rub on his cock and the fullness in his ass, the tug on his hair. It’s too much to not have an outlet. His bottom lip is in shreds. “God, yes, _fuck, Hannibal, fuck!”_

Hannibal is a beast. Truly. In every single way. He’s a horrible, horrible man, Will thinks, and almost outright _screams_ (not that anybody would be able to hear him) when the asshole reaches around and wraps his fingers around his dick. Tight. 

“Not yet,” Hannibal declares. “Don’t.”

“Fuck you,” Will exclaims. A bird squawks outside. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.”

“Yes,” he says simply. “I am.” And he rolls his hips forward, pushing himself somehow deeper inside him than before. There’s that pressure on his prostate that makes him feel invincible and delicate all at the very same time, like he could conquer the world and get pushed over by a gust of wind. 

He’s squeezing Will at the base of his cock, so hard that even if he wanted to orgasm, he wouldn’t be able to. The kinky bitch probably has a cabinet full of cockrings somewhere in this hidden house that he plans to use in the future. Right now, the sensation of the hand around his cock both bringing and denying him any pleasure is eating away at him. If he had access to his hands, he thinks for the umpteenth time since the car, then he would be pressing his knuckles into his eyes to keep them from spouting out such useless tears. They are purely out of frustration, and when one slips down his cheek in full view of his partner, he knows that Hannibal knows this. He probably relishes in it, knowing that he can make Will so desperate for an orgasm that he ends up crying over the damn thing. Another fluid to add to their disgustingly wonderful mix. 

“Fuck,” he curses, though it’s probably not helping his case one bit. “Fuck, honey, Hannibal, come on — I need — I _need —_ ”

His laugh is so dark behind him that it gives him shivers. He throws his head backwards, succumbing to Hannibal’s hand, his breathing growing shallower at the way that his fingers scratch against his scalp. He knows what Hannibal wants and he’s not going to give it to him. He’d sooner keep crying. 

“What,” he says, and punctuates each of his words with another fast thrust. “Do you need, Will?”

Actually, he thinks he might have everything that he might ever need right here. He feels as if all of his life had been leading up to the moment in which he was introduced to Doctor Hannibal Lecter and from that point onwards, his life has been spiralling on and on until they approached this sanctuary together in a mutual agreement of loyalty, respect, and love. The only thing that could make their brand new living arrangement more manageable would be if they were able to settle back into society at one point, afford luxuries and the like without having to worry about somebody recognising them and reporting them. But a strange part of Will actually likes the secrecy. The thrill of being on the run, exiled from everybody in the world apart from one another. It’s marvellous. 

There’s just one more thing.

“I need to cum,” he tells him, aching, beginning to shake all over. Hannibal takes no notice and Will knows that he won’t give in, not now, not until he says what he wants him to say. “Hannibal, I need it.”

“Do you?” he asks, feigning uninterest. He’s trying to keep up an illusion, but Will can sense the change in his breathing. He’s known him for that long, now. Knows him that well. He doubts that he’s ever let anybody else get within a mile of how close Will has gotten to him. And Will can tell that he’s losing his control.

“ _Ha— Ah — Hannibal,”_ he gets out, the words basically forced from his throat. He won’t say it. He won’t say it. He won’t say it. Not now. Not here.

“As much as I adore you panting my name,” he says, his pace not wavering, impressively. “That is not what I want to hear.”

“Come _on_.”

“No.”

“Hannibal —”

“Will.”

“Fucking — Fucking _fine —_ I — I need — Oh, for fuck _sake,_ okay, oh — there, yes, _there,_ keep doing that, will you? Oh, fucking Hell, yes — Hannibal, I need — P— Fine— Okay, _fine —_ Don’t stop, just — Fucking —”

Hannibal interrupts his babbling with a constricted, “Will?”

“Please!” he cries, his whole body curling in. He feels like he’s going to burst. “Please, _please_ , _please_ — Hannibal, _please_ , I’m —”

Hannibal releases his death grip and starts stroking him softly, but with speed. He does it in tune with his rocks into his body, which seem to become more and more stuttered, messy. It takes Will approximately forty-five seconds for him to cum after that, spilling out his semen over Hannibal’s hand and these brand new sheets, Christening them in the most unholy way imaginable. 

Hannibal continues to fuck him through his orgasm, making him oversensitised and drawing more tears from his eyes but _God_ , it never stops being good. It really never will. He follows Will’s lead after another two minutes of harsh fucking into him, like Will’s body was made for him, and he finishes inside of him without a single care in the world, a lovely deep moan on his lips and Will’s name kissed into said man’s back. He stays inside him for a while, not wanting to move, Will not wanting him to move either.

It shouldn’t be in Hannibal Lecter’s nature to cuddle after sex but it seems to be some form of a guilty pleasure for him, because it happens every time without fail. He unties Will’s wrists gently and kisses them with tenderness as he helps him up the bed, assists him to get under the covers with him. He holds him close, and they’re both so gross and sweaty and they should probably get to Christening the showers in this place, and the sun is still up and glaring beams down at them through the open window, where a blackbird sings a tune and a family of nightingales rest in their nest in the tree across the way. But they come together, and Hannibal places his head on Will’s shoulder, probably thinking about the time it will take them to wash these sheets later on. 

Will says, “And I didn’t even have to say _pretty please.”_

Parties are overrated, anyways. 

**Author's Note:**

> Writing Hannibal content in 2020 because I’m a BAD BITCH u can’t KILL ME
> 
> come talk to me on twitter @greyclouding !


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